"Una Challoner," he murmured thoughtfully. "Patience thinks I am in love with her. Curious that I am not: she has everything a woman can have to attract and allure a man, and yet I don't care a bit about her. Had I been in love with her I would not have troubled my head about Reginald but let Una inherit the property, and then it would have been a tug of war between father and son as to who married the heiress! That I have secured the property for our son ought to easily convince Patience that I love money more than Una Challoner, but of course she doesn't see because she is blinded by jealousy--rather complimentary to me I must say, seeing how hard I tried to break her heart in the past." Turning away from the window with a sigh he lighted the gas, then going over to the mirror placed over the fireplace he looked at himself long and critically. "You're growing old, my friend," he murmured, "the wine of life is running to the lees with you, and I'm afraid you'll never fall in love again--still it's wonderful how I keep my good looks--my face is my fortune--ah, bah! and what fortune has it brought me? two dismal rooms, a precarious existence, and not a friend in the world." He laughed drearily at the dismal prospect he had conjured up and pursued his meditation. "I'll make one more bid for fortune, and I think I hold strong cards. If I win--as I can't help doing--I'll turn over a new leaf and become respectable. But if I lose, and there are always the possibilities of losing, I'll throw up the sponge in England and try my luck in America. If I don't succeed there, perhaps a friendly cowboy will put an end to my wasted life; at present, _carpe diem_, as our friend the vicar would say, so I'll dine at the club and scribble a letter to Patience Allerby." He dressed himself slowly, still in a dismal mood, and as he was rattling along in a hansom he gave himself an impatient shake. "Bah," he muttered with a shiver, "I've got a fit of the blue devils with this weather. Never mind, a good dinner and a bottle of wine will soon put me right." He had both, and felt so much better that he began to view things in a more rosy light, and wrote a letter to Patience Allerby which entirely satisfied him. "There," he said gaily, as he dropped it into the box, "I think that will show my lady pretty plainly how I intend to proceed, so now as there's nothing better to do I'll go to the theatre." And to the theatre he went, trying by every means in his power to shake off by means of this fictitious gaiety the gloomy thoughts which always beset him when he found himself alone. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM. After great troubles our lives rearrange themselves in new forms, which last only until some later evil arises therefrom to alter them once more, and these latter in their turn are subject to further changes, so that from cradle to tomb our fortunes alter in divers ways every moment of our existence.